Cold Was the Ground
by sbgrrl
Summary: During a hunt, Sam and Castiel end up separated from Dean. Wounded, cut off, and hunted by the monster they were chasing, they have to work together to survive until Dean finds them. S5, contains some gore and definitely foul language.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written as a response to a prompt for spn_summergen, previously posted on LJ and anonymously. I will post the other half tomorrow, or the day after depending on how RL goes. :)_

**Cold Was the Ground**

The scent of death, old rot mixed with new, was what pulled Sam Winchester awake. Decomposing flesh, and lurking beneath that there was another smell as familiar. Antiseptic; something medicinal, but no, that wasn't quite right. It was like sterile plastic and vomit at the same time, sweet and sharp as … chloroform or formaldehyde. Against the stronger aroma of decaying flesh and dirt too, he noticed, it nauseated him. His head pounded, brain felt bruised and mouth dry as sand, the odd taste of burned motor oil on his tongue. These things were clear to him, but nothing important was. He didn't know how or why, when or where, but each of those things tickled at his confused brain like he _should_.

Wherever he was, he could tell it was dark. It was cold and wet. A cellar, maybe, or a cave. He opened his eyes and saw nothing, not at first. Several blinks passed before his eyes adjusted to see there was illumination coming from somewhere. He was able to make out indistinct shapes, nothing more than dark blurs in dim light and out of the corners of his eyes. He was flat on his back, on something unyielding. He prepared to sit, not sure if he was going to get his muscles to cooperate. He felt fatigued, as if he'd endured a rough bout of flu, or run a marathon. Or died and come back to life.

He tried, but he couldn't move his head, let alone his major muscle groups. He felt pressure on his forehead, across his chest, wrists and ankles. He was pinned in place. A panicky sensation rippled through him. He strained, pulled and twisted his bound limbs but the restraints held fast. If anything they tightened, as if whatever had hold of him was alive and was responding to his movements. That was stupid, he could tell they were leather, not some sentient being. He heard the leather creaking the way Dean's old jacket did, back when Dean used to wear it, and when their father had worn it before him. He'd outgrown the jacket before it ever had the chance to make it to him, not that it ever would have. He wasn't sure if it was the tightening or the memories of his family that made him panic more, but in any case his thrashing was short lived. His adrenalized energy waned and left him shaky and clammy. He had to know, somewhere deep in his fuzzy memories, how he had ended up that way, and he had to stop freaking out so he could just remember.

His frantic attempts to free himself elicited no response from whoever had him, none that he could discern anyway. His breathing was loud, ragged, and Sam could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Those were the only things he could hear, for a long minute. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this unnerved. Those days had passed, a couple years ago now. He wasn't that reluctant hunter, wet behind the ears because he didn't want to be there. He still didn't want to be there, not deep down, but he accepted who he was and what he had to do. Deep breaths, deep breaths. He was okay. He'd be fine.

Oh, shit, though.

"Dean?" he whispered.

Sam wasn't sure why he expected his brother to be there. Nine times out of ten lately, they walked different paths even on the same hunt. He didn't think he'd ever get his brother back, hadn't seen the Dean he knew for over a year. But then, he wasn't the Sam he used to be, either. The both of them were, but weren't at the same time, like Schrödinger's damned cat. But that didn't matter. Dean wasn't there, or if he was he was in worse shape than Sam was and couldn't answer. He didn't think that was the case, or maybe he just hoped.

He couldn't quite remember, it wasn't quite in his brain, what he'd been doing alone before he woke up strapped to a table. He had to remember the situation first before he could work on getting out of it. Sam closed his eyes tight and thought, tried to make his synapses fire the way he needed them to, bend them to his will. This was the principle he applied when he … the blood. He opened his eyes again, let out an uncomfortable moan. He didn't want to go there. This wasn't that, and no matter how much he wanted that he couldn't, he didn't. He wouldn't. Okay, okay. He had to breathe.

He didn't know why he was thinking about demon blood at the moment (except when didn't he?). He had more immediate concerns. Like Swiss-cheese for a brain and a sudden and painful need to piss. He didn't know where he was or why or who had him, but he was not going to give it the satisfaction of losing it right there. No, he was going to get out. Somehow. Jesus, his head had felt numb before but now it started to throb with the deep pain of hangover. Drugged. Being drugged meant he and Dean probably hadn't been hunting anything non-humanoid. He thought. Maybe. No guarantee, there.

A sound came from above, recognizable. A door slamming shut. Well, he wasn't in a cave. Footsteps came next, from directly above. Wood creaking, floorboards. A trickle of dust and dirt drifted onto his face, into his mouth and nose. Sam closed his eyes and tried to sneeze noiselessly, failed. The rustle of cloth, much, much closer than the other noises, startled him. Dean, Dean was down there with him. He didn't care about the how, when, why and where anymore, didn't know why he ever had. Wasn't as important as getting him and Dean the hell out.

"Hello," he said. "Dean, that you?"

"Sam."

Even half expecting the reply, he jerked at the quiet monotone. The restraints on his wrist and the one across his forehead dug into his cool skin, stinging. The voice didn't belong to Dean. Sam grew even more confused.

"Castiel?"

"Yes."

"What … where are we? Do you know what happened? Is Dean here?" He swallowed. He wished he knew why he was so uneasy. "I don't remember."

Whatever was still in his system was powerful enough he could hear a slight slur in his own words, his tongue as sluggish as his brain. Except, no, his brain was working fine, it was only his short term memory that was cloudy. It would clear up soon, but that could happen when he was away from here. Castiel would get him out. That must be why he was there all of a sudden, except he didn't know how Castiel would have known where he was if he didn't know himself.

"I'm not altogether certain of our current location," Castiel said, sounding puzzled himself. "The events of this evening are somewhat … unclear. Dean isn't here."

Sam didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Castiel was an angel; he always knew things. The big things, anyway. Since the downgrade, Castiel sometimes had unexpected inefficiencies. Something wasn't making sense about Castiel's explanation. It almost sounded like Castiel had been drugged too. As far as Sam knew, drugs didn't work on angels, not even ones that had been demoted.

"Dean's not here," Sam murmured. He was glad about that, but disappointed at the same time. "Why didn't you say something earlier? I thought I was …"

The sounds from above got louder, heavy footsteps and something else scraped across the entire length of the ceiling. Following that, the thump of the door again. Silence. Sam squinted against the dark, wished he could see more. He wasn't sure seeing would help him at all in his situation, but it would go a long way in making him feel better.

"So you don't know where we are either," Sam said.

"Not specifically," Castiel said and didn't elaborate.

All of a sudden, Sam felt awkward as well as confused and slightly panicked. It was like he'd been stuck in a room with someone else's non-talkative friend. He wasn't far off base. Castiel was Dean's friend, not Sam's. He was difficult to read, but Sam always got the sense Castiel tolerated him and nothing more. Sam was the tainted one, the one on the wrong side of the fight even if he didn't want to be.

"But you do remember what we were doing, right? I'm coming up blank and it's starting to freak me out."

Starting, right.

"I remember."

Again, no elaboration. Sam didn't bother pushing for more information. All that mattered was getting out. His brain could catch up later, and if it didn't, Dean would give him answers. At least Dean would give him that, though Sam didn't expect anything more. Not since … no, he couldn't let his mind wander to things not immediately relevant. Here and now he just needed to not be strapped to a table.

"Well, do your thing." Sam sounded angry. He kind of was. He couldn't figure out why Castiel didn't power them out first, and have unhelpful, vague conversation later. "Get us out of wherever we are."

"You're right." Castiel paused. "I should do that."

Sam heard the soft rustle of Castiel's trench, maybe a joint popping. Did an angel's knees crack? Jimmy's might.

"But I'm not sure that's going to be possible."

"Why not?"

Sam expected another cryptic reply. He didn't know if Castiel did that on purpose, if the guy truly just didn't understand half of what he and Dean were talking about and compensated by making sure they didn't understand him either. It seemed a human thing to do, a passive-aggressive human thing to do, which … wasn't like Castiel at all, really. Sam let out a huff of air that sounded loud in his quiet prison. He heard rustling cloth, a shuffle of footsteps, a different, strange sound he couldn't place, then liquid and whoosh.

The room was flooded with bright light and heat.

He gasped in a startled breath and tried to shy away, forgot he was immobilized. Blinking, eyes watering, Sam waited it out while his eyes adjusted. Even then, all he could see came from his peripheral vision, but he smelled smoke and oil. Oh. Oh, not good. Leather straps wouldn't hold Castiel, but burning holy oil would.

"Oh, shit," Sam said.

"I concur," Castiel said. "Wholeheartedly."

"What happened?" Sam thought he was going to ask that question forever. "You all right?"

"I'm fine, Sam." Through the crackle of what would be a perpetual fire, the sound of dull, shuffling footfalls. "It appears I'm a booby."

The urge to laugh nearly won out, only Sam's sheer inability to tip his head back was a reminder of how there was nothing about this that was funny.

"Trap," Sam said, his voice tight and slightly hoarse. "Someone or something set a booby trap."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"Close enough, I guess."

Sam wondered if Castiel would have been able to get away before the fire started. He also wondered if Castiel had known what was going to happen before he moved and tripped whatever had ignited a flame. The truth was, he wasn't sure if holy oil had to be burning for it to trap an angel, or if Castiel had been screwed even without the bonfire. Ultimately, he could file all those wonderings under: did not matter. He studied the rickety, dusty underside of floorboards above, noticed a few cobwebs floating and flickering in the firelight.

Now that Sam could see all the things he'd smelled, he remembered why they were there even if he couldn't say for sure where there was. It was all his fault. He shut his eyes tight.

_He didn't know what day of the week it was. Sometimes, always, he wasn't sure which way was up and which way was down, except down was where he had to go. He did know that, so that meant down was … down. He'd tried so many things already and none of them had worked. In his booze-addled mind, he even knew this was the most futile of all, because Dean was already dead. What was down there wouldn't help someone who was already dead and buried, buried deep in blood, dead in a goddamned hole in the ground._

_Sam stopped, leaned against the shovel handle and breathed through a nasty bout of nausea. Turned out Jack Daniels and overexertion didn't mix. He did what came naturally now – he lurched for the bottle, noted he'd lobbed a fair amount of dirt into it, shrugged and took a long swig. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of … not rum. Rum was on Wednesdays and Sundays, so today was probably Friday. Yep, Friday. Or Monday. He felt better having figured that out and what was a little more alcohol in his bloodstream, anyway? Every good alcoholic knew to feed the hangover away before it could start. Constant drunkenness was the only way to go when life was an unending nightmare._

"Oh, fuck," he said. "We're fucking fucked."

"You remember," Castiel said.

oOo

Only being able to hear what was happening was worse than it would have been if Sam could also see it. He knew what was going on. Every wet slice, every rip of flesh sounded like it was happening right next to him instead of across the room. It wasn't the acoustics of the cellar causing that effect. The sounds themselves weren't different from what he'd heard many times over in his life, but they were very different all the same. They were his fault, and he couldn't do a damned thing to stop them. It would almost be better if Castiel screamed, drowned out the noise of his insides being played with. He was sure angels felt pain, sure Castiel had to feel every single last cut into his skin.

"I've been keeping an eye on you." The clink of an implement hitting a tray. Something sodden, bloody, slapped down a moment later. A towel, a rag, a sliver of liver. "Ever since. Been waiting for just the right time, until finally it was. The stars aligned. And here you are."

The words were directed at Sam, while the actions were directed at Castiel. That was part of the game, and he knew it. He also knew he didn't need the recap, not anymore. He knew more than he wanted to. For the billionth time, he strained against the leather straps holding him in place, longed for the power of demon blood just, just, only so he could get away and get Castiel out. For the billionth time, leather bit into his ankles, chafed his wrists. He couldn't feel his fingers very well anymore, each time he struggled to free himself only tightened the restraints to the point blood flow was minimal. He knew he should stop trying before he inflicted irreparable harm, but this was _all his fault_. He wouldn't stop until it was no longer in his control.

"He's got nothing to do with any of that," Sam said.

"Oh, I know. Contrary to how it might seem, this isn't a revenge thing." A metallic scraping sound, a metal lid being tightened on a glass jar, maybe, filled the room. "It was when I first got out, but it's not anymore. Hasn't been since I tracked you down, saw what kind of newfound friend you had. Do you think I'm a fool? I couldn't resist taking advantage of the precious gifts laid at my doorstep."

Sam didn't reply. Talking wasn't going to make this all go away, or do anything besides make him angry. The casual conversation stopped, and so did the sounds of surgery. Other sounds too indistinguishable to label filled the space instead, layered under a soft _plink-plink_. Sam knew that last sound wasn't water. Blood. He was worried that when who or whatever had put Castiel back together again, important pieces had been missed. Castiel thought it had been God, and maybe he was right. What better way to make an angel side with humans – and Sam was sure they needed Cas – than to make him a tiny bit closer to humanity himself? Or it could have been some darker force, in a misguided attempt to make Castiel less valuable somehow, to Dean.

Whatever the cause, the sound of blood dripping wasn't something Sam had shied away from for a long, long time. He didn't ever remember relishing it, but it was part of his life as surely as monsters and death. Hell, though, now in some deep, dark, horrible recess of his mind he wondered if drinking angel blood would amp him up in any way similar to demon blood. Help get them out. The thought was automatic, revolting. His gut felt like it flipped, and flipped again like a fish on dry land, desperate to survive.

_His tolerance for alcohol was higher than it used to be, which wasn't saying much – he used to have almost zero tolerance. By the last swigs of his second bottle these days, Sam usually had to start tamping down the need to hurl. With all the exertion of digging thrown into the mix tonight, trying to prevent a puke was an alcoholic delusion. He bent at the waist, heaved, gasped and choked until there was nothing left. He thought this had to work. It would be worth the pain and sweat and puddle of vomit at his feet. Nothing else had worked, but this would. He didn't know what else he would resort to if it didn't. Anything. Everything. _

_He slid down the five-foot wall of dirt, rested on his haunches. Dean would call him some derogatory name right about now if he were here to see the sorry state Sam was in. But Dean wasn't here and that was the whole point. Sam allowed his grief to surface, just for a minute. He thought he deserved a minute now and then to weep for his brother instead of rage against all injustices in his life._

_Sam swiped his dirty, sweaty hand across his nose and stood. The world continued its drunken wobble, but he was almost there. He heard a slight rattle of thick chains, wasn't sure if the earth moving beneath his feet was strictly an illusion due to his inebriation. A few more shovels of dirt. He struck down with renewed energy, clearing dirt and bile until rusty white was revealed._

"Now there, that ought to do it. All we have to do is wait and see what kind of treasure I've really got here, but I think everyone here already knows."

Sam heard the squeak of an old faucet and a bare trickle of water. Footsteps approached. He stared at the ugly, scarred face that appeared above him. Unable to turn away no matter how much he wanted to, he longed for the ability to kill with his mind. He didn't even care if that would make him as evil as the piece of shit grinning down at him. He suspected evil was in his future no matter what he did, that it was his role in all this. But he didn't think it was Castiel's fate to endure torture because of Sam's past (or future) mistakes.

"Don't you worry, Winchester," the man said. "I told you I've been watching you. All of you. I had hoped to have three subjects, but if I had to only get two … well, I'm sure your brother will be here soon. _Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_ and all that. In the meantime, I've got some interesting thoughts about what's running through your veins. Your angel friend isn't the only one who gets to have some fun. You're not going to be left out."

Well, Sam supposed he had some experience in bleeding out. This couldn't be any worse than ghouls chomping on his slit forearms. He was dealing with a trained professional here, not some sick fucking animal. He almost started laughing, because that wasn't exactly true. He wondered if the bloodletting had already begun. He felt lightheaded. It was probably the heavy smell of decomposition and chemicals.

"You'll be wasting your time with that," Sam said. "There's nothing in my blood but blood."

"Liar, liar," the man said, cheerful and raspy. He grinned at Sam, then ducked out of visual range. "I know what you are."

Sam thought he heard a faint moan, Castiel giving in to the misery of the last hour. Hours. Days. Time was irrelevant here. Stupidly, Sam tried to turn his head. A glimpse of his torture companion was all he needed, some kind of confirmation Castiel was still alive. Of course he was. An angel couldn't be killed by human tools. He shivered, though the heat from the holy oil fire had elevated the dank cellar's temperature, increased the humidity and the stink.

"I hope my blood kills you."

"It would be a shame if you're not an acceptable type." There was a soft creak as a cart was wheeled across the dirt floor. "Then your usefulness would be so much more limited. But you know it can't kill me, and you know I will make do with your other varied attributes."

Die now or die later. Those were his options. In some ways, Sam thought death might be a better choice in the long run. Then again, Lucifer would find him after death and bring him back. That had been promised, but probably not until after he spent some time in Hell, had been beaten down until he couldn't take any more. Dean had lasted thirty years. How long would Sam go before he said yes, even knowing what the consequences were? Dean had always been the strong one, the virtuous one. Sam wouldn't stand a chance, and that was the most terrifying thought that occupied his mind almost every second of every day. That he wasn't strong enough. He'd never _been_ strong enough, under far less crucial circumstances than the apocalypse.

Cold hands wrapped something thin around his right bicep, pulled him back to the shitty mess of now. A second later the strap tightened uncomfortably. The man started humming, monotone and indecipherable. Still, the tune was morbid and absurd in this place of suffering and death.

"You're going to feel a little pinch now."

The warning wasn't because the guy cared. Sam was no stranger to sarcasm, and his instinct was proven correct when hot, searing pain lit into his right arm. It might as well have been a ghoul chewing its way to his vein. At the very least, the needle was the size of drinking straw. He bit back a groan, determined not to give his captor the satisfaction. If Castiel could take all he'd undergone without a sound, Sam could take a jab to the arm.

"Whoops, missed it," the man said. "Does that hurt?"

"Tickles," Sam said through clenched teeth. "Asshole."

A dry laugh, and the giant needle dug and pivoted. Sam swore he saw an arc of his own blood, a splash of red on the fringe of his vision. His imagination was in overdrive, hyped from having to listen to rough surgery being done on Castiel. He wanted to blame it on that, but he knew whom he was dealing with. He had no doubt the man took pleasure in causing pain. Ethical practices had been thrown out the window over a hundred years ago. And no matter what he claimed, Sam knew revenge was still an element to all of this. Collectively, the Winchester family had been a huge thorn in this guy's side.

"There we go."

Moist heat on Sam's arm, then up by his ear. God, even the guy's breath smelled like death. Again, reaction won out as Sam tried to turn his head.

"You have beautiful veins."

If that was supposed to make him say thanks, the evil doctor had another think coming. Sam growled deep in his throat, half out of pissed-off frustration and half as an outlet for the true lightheaded feeling he was starting to get. A normal person under normal circumstances using normal sized needles could pump out a pint of blood in ten or fifteen minutes. He was pretty sure he was setting a record no one ever wanted to set.

"Just a little more," the voice in his ear said, sounded, strangely, a million mile away. "Don't want to tap the well too quickly."

"I'm going to rip your throat out with my bare hands," Sam said, or tried to. He couldn't hear his own voice well either, heard instead the odd drone of a thousand bees. Funny, they were in his ears and somehow in his belly as well.

"That's okay, I can get another one."

"Bastard, I'll ki … I'll kill you."

"Anh-anh, haven't we been there before?" the doctor said. "History's on my side. It'll always be on my side; I've got more of it."

Only because Sam had screwed up. He remained glaringly aware of that, would never forget. The bees started attacking his eyes, swarming the edges of his vision in a dark gray, ever expanding blur. He couldn't pass out. Jesus, how much blood had he lost?

"The ground was so cold, Winchester. I ain't going back there. You'll go there before I will, I can promise you that, but it will not be soon and it will not be easy."

Sam didn't have the energy to give more threats he knew were futile. He barely had the energy to keep his eyes open, but he strained to. The pain of the needle being yanked out helped keep him right on the edge of consciousness, in a fog. He was with it enough to feel his arm being tended to haphazardly, enough to see shadows of movement. But it wasn't going to last. He couldn't get him and Castiel free if he fainted, but that didn't seem to matter. He closed his eyes, couldn't open them again and the sound of bees overtook him.

oOo

"It would be beneficial for you to awaken now."

Sam wanted to say no. He wanted to stay in twilight sleep. This time in rousing from unconsciousness, he knew where he was and what was happening. He simply didn't want to acknowledge it yet. His right arm felt like it was on fire. Probably infected already. He doubted this hole in the ground was up to hygienic code.

"Sam Winchester."

"Mmmph," he said.

"Benton has departed the building, so it would be good for you to _open your eyes_," Castiel said. Ordered. Sounded weak as a newborn puppy, but commanding all the same.

Benton.

_Sam slammed the journal shut, flipped it over and began at the beginning, the fourth time he had done so. He had read every scrawling page, every horrible detail, memorized bits of the text. The first time he didn't remember, but he'd woken up with his forehead stuck to the last page. Hell, he didn't remember getting from the gravesite to his craphole cabin in the woods either, didn't remember filling the grave. But he must have. That was the problem with relying on hard alcohol for daily sustenance, those pesky blackout periods. He snorted and reached for the bottle. He could build a new, less crapholey cabin out of old bottles. Dean would approve._

"_Goddamnit," Sam said, for a second startled to hear his father's voice when he knew he was alone, always alone._

_Benton's work wasn't going to help him and Sam already knew it. Dean was dead, buried like Benton and if Sam could ever get something to work he would be sure to go dig up his brother first. Because he had vague, dream-like memories of animalistic howling and hoarse screams of agony too awful to be imagined and Dean could not go through that. Dean wouldn't wake up underground. Sam took a drink and started rereading._

"He's gone?" Sam asked. He peeled his eyes open, squinted at rusty nails poking through the floorboards, out of ceiling beams. "How long?"

"I have been attempting to wake you for five minutes. Before that, I was indisposed myself so I can't say with certainty."

Sam winced. He could smell the tang of fresh blood in the rank air. Most of it had to be Castiel's.

"So he could be back any minute."

"It would seem time is of the essence."

Right. What Sam didn't know was what he was supposed to do now that he was awake, strapped to a filthy operating table. He tested the restraints on his wrists, surprised they were looser than they had been before he passed out; he supposed Benton had a vested interest in making sure his fingers didn't fall off useless and dead before his hands could be amputated and recycled. He relaxed his arms, fought to think around a raging headache.

After a minute or two of speculating, he came up with exactly zero ways out of this fix, barring Dean busting in and finding them. Considering they wouldn't have found Benton in the first place if there hadn't been a rash of mysterious injuries that looked an awful lot like 19th century surgery in Charlotte, North Carolina, that didn't seem likely. Thinking of it now, it was as obvious as a neon arrow. Benton had wanted them to find him, figure out he had gotten free. And since Castiel told Sam before his memories sorted themselves out on their own that he was inclined to believe Benton had brought them well away from the Charlotte area, Dean would have to do a lot of legwork. That would take more time than Sam wanted to think about, more time to listen to Benton play with his new rapidly healing, immortal plaything. Shit on toast.

"You got any ideas?" Sam asked. "I've got nothing."

Castiel didn't respond.

Great, Sam thought, back to the awkwardness of strangers stuck in a torture chamber together. He strained to hear, trying to determine if Castiel had passed out again. He knew it took a lot to knock the guy on his ass, wasn't sure if unsanitary surgery and a superhuman dose of tranquilizers qualified. It didn't seem like it should, but Benton apparently had over a year's worth of intel on them, and as fucked up as the doctor was, he was brilliant. And sickly motivated. He could know more about angel physiology than anyone ever would.

Sam was about to try to wake Castiel when he felt something against his left wrist. It was barely there, felt more like fuzzy air than anything. His heart started beating faster. Oh crap, was it a rat? Some other rodent come to chew on him? When the restraint on his left wrist slackened and he heard the metallic scrape of the buckle unfastening, his heart raced for a different reason. Sam was amazed and relieved Castiel was neither down for the count or being his usual strange self.

"Cas?" He whispered, as if speaking loudly would break the spell. "Almost there."

Before, however long ago it was, Castiel must have been too doped up to do anything or they'd have been free. And now it seemed he was too weak to finish unbuckling the restraint. Sam heard Castiel heave a shaky breath, and the movement around his own wrist ceased. He wasn't loose enough to get his hand free easily, but it was a start.

"'Sokay," he mumbled mostly to himself, and a little bit to Castiel. "Take it easy. It's okay."

The buckle was out of his reach, no matter how he tried to bend his wrist. His fingers weren't long enough, or maybe all the self-inflicted constriction had done some damage after all. Sam let his hand relax, willed his fingers to grow a millimeter and tried again. What he needed was for Castiel to finish unbuckling the strap. He didn't think it was going to happen and he didn't think about what he was about to do as an alternative. It was a last resort, but his hand was too wide to fit through the narrow opening. On the plus side, he'd dislocated his thumb before. On the minus side, undoing the rest of his restraints would be more difficult with a digit out of joint.

Sam twisted his hand, thumb down, and pressed as hard as he could against the tabletop. For a second, he didn't think he was going to have enough force and leverage until then a muffled, thudding _pop_ and his hand was closer to the width it needed to be. He strangled the shout of pain in his throat as he slid free of the cuff, the newly injured thumb caught briefly on the leather.

"Nnghahh." He couldn't help releasing some of the pain in a strangled moan. It wasn't the worst pain Sam had ever experienced; didn't mean it felt great. "Shit."

He compartmentalized that pain as a temporary inconvenience, quickly used his free hand to shove at the band across his forehead. It was strapped too tightly. He fumbled for the release, but realized it wasn't going to happen. He gave up after a second to focus on his hands. He twisted his torso as far as he could, tried to give himself enough slack to align left hand with his right properly in order to reduce the dislocation on the first attempt. That didn't work either, but he didn't have the option to try anything else, and didn't want to. He had to get himself free.

It wasn't a simple task with sight. It wasn't always easy even when Dean helped. Sam shouldn't have been so optimistic, doing the reduction by touch and at an awkward angle. The whole case had been a giant clusterfuck, so expecting something to go smoothly was about as ridiculous a thing as Sam had ever expected. Actually, his whole life had turned into a mess of hopelessness. He wasn't convinced Dean thought they could beat the devil. He wasn't sure Castiel truly thought he was going to find God – every time he and Dean saw Cas, it seemed more of his certainty faded into the background. It fell to Sam. He could remain hopeful, maybe enough for all of them. Maybe long enough for him not to be alone in it. He didn't like the proverbial writing on the wall; he'd find a way to erase it.

Fueled by his thoughts, Sam took a deep breath, held it and re-attempted the reduction. With an uncomfortable thunk, his left hand regained its regular shape. Some numbness lingered, but he moved faster, unbuckling first his right hand, then his head. He forgot he was a couple pints of blood low, though, and when he sat abruptly up the world did a virtual loop and his vision phased for a moment or two. He took a deep breath, waited until he could see and continued to free himself.

Only when he was standing mostly upright on his own two bare feet did Sam take a closer look at his surroundings. The place was as he expected, cluttered and filthy. It looked a lot like Benton's old lab, but it wasn't the same place. If Sam knew anything, he knew that the guy was too smart to return to his original stomping grounds for this master plan of his. Still, Benton's decorating touches were the same, except he had slightly newer equipment. Must have found some antique house or museum to steal himself a whole new set of old stuff.

Jars of murky liquid lined a far wall. He doubted they contained homemade pickles and preserves, and he didn't want to waste the energy imagining what they held instead. He stopped the visual inventory altogether as soon as he caught sight of Castiel, lying curled on his side in the middle of a ring of fire. Not moving, eyes closed. Though he knew Castiel wasn't dead, he staggered away from the table in such a hurry he barely recovered from planting face first onto the stained floor.

"Castiel," Sam said, hoped for a reaction and didn't get one.

He grabbed a rust-colored towel off a medical tray. He didn't spare the elaborate set-up surrounding the angel trap more than a fleeting look, ignored that what he was using to beat down the flames was soaked in blood. Sam wanted to extinguish the whole circle, but he wasn't the pinnacle of health at the moment himself. All he needed was an inch. He kept at it until he had a space big enough for him to get through without burning his feet.

Sam intended to crouch, but lost his balance and ended upon his knee. He was beginning to think Benton had taken more than a couple pints. He shook his head, focused. A hand on Castiel's shoulder elicited a response, a slight opening of eyes.

"You awake now?" Sam whispered, like Benton was upstairs.

"I was not sleeping," Castiel said. "I was merely conserving my energy."

"You can walk, right?"

Castiel lifted his head, squinted toward the break in the fire, then looked up at Sam. He nodded and began to fish around on the floor.

Sam hauled himself upright, leaned to help Castiel the rest of the way up and had to breathe through another bout of vertigo. Both of them stood unsteadily in the middle of the fire for a moment, gathered themselves. They weren't out yet. He wanted out in the worst way. Not before he destroyed this monster's lab. He had an overwhelming urge to watch the place burn.

As soon as Castiel crossed the fire threshold, Sam searched for and tossed flammable-looking things onto the flames. The blaze sparked to life and began to grow outside the controlled circle. He knew it was stupid, because after they got done with him, Benton wasn't going to use this stuff to hurt anyone ever again. The higher the flames rose, the more he wanted to feed them, and the dizzier he became trying to burn it all.

"Sam, we should go," Castiel said, as he placed his hand on Sam's right arm. "Now."

Sam didn't know if it was the pity he saw in Castiel's weary eyes or the sharp spike of pain from his definitely infected arm that made him realize he'd been frenzied with irrational hate and need and hadn't been in full control. God, he was so fucked up. He knew it. Everyone knew it. Castiel standing there, somehow in his wrinkled trenchcoat again, tilted slightly to the side like he'd been partially deflated and holding a recognizable pair of shoes out, knowing what Sam was and ready to keep fighting with him anyway just about broke him.

Or it was the blood loss messing with his head.

He took the shoes and shoved his feet in them. Already the fire was eating its way over to the antique operating table he'd just vacated. Neither of them were ready to run, both of them knew readiness was unimportant. It was time to go, get away so they could recuperate and come back to stick Benton in the cold ground where he would stay forever. Unless maybe Cas could and would kill him permanently.

They relied on each other's support, Castiel leaning more heavily on Sam, as they stumbled for the rickety stair leading up to freedom. The fire, Sam thought too late, probably hadn't been a brilliant idea. He choked on smoke, his eyes watered. Flames licking at their boot heels did make for a great motivator. Though he felt awful and knew Castiel must feel even worse judging from the amount of blood covering him and the way he couldn't stand upright, they managed to bust open the basement door. Sam didn't take notice of the cabin itself, steered them to and out the door, down a few steps off a small porch.

One gulp of fresh night air was all Sam got before he realized two things: they were in the middle of very heavy woods, with a dirt path serving as the only easy route out; and in the not-too-distant distance he heard the rumble of a vehicle engine that was coming up the dirt path. For a fraction of a second, he had a wild hope it was Dean. But he'd recognize the Impala from miles away, and it wasn't her.

"Oh, fuck," he said, still somewhat breathless. "We're fucking fucked."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Early posting of the conclusion is brought to you in part by my neighbor, who thought it a grand idea to start using a **chainsaw** before 9:00 AM on my day off, thereby waking me hours before I intended with its ruckus and the stench of gasoline wafting into my apartment. Urgh. But, hey, these were hours slotted for something other than fic posting, so it's a win for you all. Hehe.  
_

**Cold Was the Ground  
Chapter Two**

His cell was in his jacket. His jacket was probably in Benton's cabin. Benton's cabin was well on its way to becoming a smoldering pile of cinders.

Sam knew he was beyond capable of fighting his own fights, but childhood instinct was hard to deny. He wanted to call Dean and he wanted Dean to come rolling in to save the day. What he wanted wasn't important, it was never important these days or ever had been, and he could want until sunrise but Dean wasn't going to show in time.

Besides, Castiel had managed to get his jacket, probably felt naked without it, but his cell wasn't in any of the pockets. Chances were, Sam's pockets would have been empty too. As it was, he considered himself lucky to have his shoes. He still had no real idea where they were. The terrain was rough, the temperature cool and there were many, many trees. Could be Oregon, or California, or Minnesota or _anywhere_. He didn't know, and in all likelihood Dean didn't yet either. Unless it had been longer than Sam thought. Minutes might have been hours, hours might have been days. He was still unclear about recent events and timelines.

Sam shivered and hunkered down, stayed as quiet as possible. He didn't like that he and Castiel were hiding like frightened rabbits, but Benton was too close for them to move without drawing attention. They couldn't afford to make even the slightest of mistakes. Benton's lab here might be gone, that didn't mean his original lair in Erie wasn't a back-up plan. If he caught them again, he'd find a way and a place to dissect them slowly. Sam wondered how long it would be before Castiel was back to regular strength. He wasn't sure if Cas could transport him away at this point, but he could get the hell out himself. Find Dean, make sure he was okay.

He didn't really know Dean was all right. Benton mentioned that Dean would come for him. That didn't mean his brother hadn't been hurt or something. Sam frowned. He had a fleeting thought that maybe Dean wouldn't hurry to find him, knew it was stupid. It was just that lately, it didn't seem much like Dean cared enough to put a rush on a rescue. Sam didn't blame him for that. It was a fact of life, and he hated that sometimes he started doubting Dean the way he knew Dean doubted him.

"_Jesus, Sam, really?" Dean snapped. He slammed the smudged journal onto the table. "Doc Benton. You let that bastard out of his hole? Like we don't have enough problems you ca… never mind. What were you thinking?"_

_Sam stared at his hands. The thumbnail on his right hand was jagged and torn from chewing on it, a habit he thought he'd kicked when he was twelve. The feelings rolling through him were jumbled so much he wasn't sure if he was more upset because Dean had to ask why he'd screwed up this particular thing, or because it was another notch on a list of transgressions too horrible they never directly spoke about them. Sam the screw-up, Sam the demon blood addict, Sam the vessel for Lucifer. That was what everything boiled down to. _

"_I didn't let him out, Dean," Sam said. "At least … I don't think I did."_

"_Oh, yeah? That's funny." Dean snorted. "Here's his book of secrets. Last I saw it, it was six feet under, with him. And now people are turnin' up with vital organs missing. It doesn't take a genius to do the math on this one."_

"_Could we maybe not focus on blame and concentrate on stopping him?" Sam stood up. "It's my fault, okay? I admit that. You were dead and I was beyond fucked up and I don't even remember much except for thinking maybe there was something in the book that could help me. I'm sorry. Just, let's fix this."_

_They had to fix it, all of it. The world depended on it. Only, the movie playing in an endless loop in Sam's head always ended ambiguously, the kind of ending that left people feeling vaguely sick and confused instead of content._

"_Sam's right," Castiel said. As always, he sounded abrupt, frank. "What's in the past is done. It cannot be undone. I suggest we move forward."_

The rustle of branches could have been the wind. Sam didn't bank on it. He regulated his breathing to as slow a rate as possible, as if Benton could hear him otherwise. He gave a sidelong glance at Castiel, who was slumped and seemed barely conscious. He had to admit he was getting worried at how slowly Cas was coming out of it. He hadn't had the chance to see what Benton had done to the guy, presumed it had been worse than bad.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Benton chanted. "You can't hide forever."

Benton was right about that. Playing rabbit was only going to work for a limited time. All Sam could do was hope that Benton would start walking away from them and keep going so they could move. He strained to discern which direction Benton's voice had come from. He was pretty decent at that under usual circumstances. Tonight, he had a case of blood-loss tinnitus and slight but constant disorientation. Huh, and he was worried about Castiel not recovering fast enough. Pot and kettle. They were both in sorry shape to be running from a madman who'd out thought them at every step when they _weren't_ in crappy condition. To be fair, no one would anticipate being studied, stalked and snared by someone supposed to be far under ground.

"I'm going to need a new set of samples." Benton seemed further away. "If you come out on your own, I promise I'll make it so it won't hurt a bit."

Right. Psychopathic, organ-stealing, better-off-dead doctors always made good on their promises. Sam thought it odd that Benton was openly taunting them. History had proven the man was capable of great stealth, which led him to believe Benton had some reason to announce his whereabouts every few minutes. Like a trap. Sam looked over his shoulder, wary and as alert as he could be. Sticking to one spot and position for so long, the danger of lapsing into sleep rose every minute. He did not want to doze off and wake up strapped to another table.

Forget finding the nearest phone, which might be twenty or more miles away. Forget calling Dean. They only needed time for Castiel to heal. If they stayed in one spot, the healing would happen faster, but they ran the risk of Benton finding them. No, it was better to try to put some ground between them.

Without having any real way of telling time, Sam would have to use his gut to tell him when it was safe. He waited for Benton to talk again, waited for the sound of a twig snapping. When he had heard neither for what seemed like longer than it was, he decided it was time to go. Lethargy was setting in even faster despite the adrenaline coursing through his system. He was a little envious of Castiel's repose, though he knew of all their options sleeping was the worst one. He placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder, shook it.

"I think he's gone," Sam whispered. "We have got to go."

Castiel opened his eyes and didn't quite focus on Sam.

He never quite focused on Sam, though, so Sam wasn't sure how to read the fuzzy expression. A second passed, a slow blink, and there was clarity in Castiel's eyes again. Surprisingly, Sam swore he caught a glimpse of stark pain that seemed less to do with physical injury than something intangible, deeper. He didn't know what that meant, and before he could try to give a name to the look it was gone.

"You doin' any better, Cas?"

"I am getting there," Castiel said. "Are you fit for this, Sam?"

There was only one right answer to that question.

"Have to be," Sam said and gave a grin he hoped was convincing. The low blood pressure and ringing in his ears might make him off-kilter, but this was life and death. He'd be fine. He'd had worse.

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

The question was whether or not they could move quietly enough. Most of the reason they'd frozen on the spot was Sam's fear they'd only draw Benton to them by crashing through the underbrush. Since Sam had no real idea where Benton was at the moment, this could prove to be as much a mistake as staying put was. The situation wasn't good either way. He'd been thinking, though, that they couldn't bumble around without some sort of guidepost. Benton knew the territory. He and Castiel weren't equipped enough to be certain which way was up.

"Now that Benton's out here looking for us," Sam said, "I've been thinking we should head toward the cabin. His vehicle should be there and even if it isn't, the service road is the only guaranteed way out."

Because Sam didn't know how long it would be before Castiel could be of more practical use, he wanted Plan B to be close at hand. Stealing the vehicle would be the best case scenario, but at least following along the path would get them closer to civilization, a main road, anything.

Castiel nodded. "In our current states, that does seem to be the best option."

Without having to discuss it, Sam and Castiel moved at a fraction of the pace his instinct was telling him they needed. Slow and steady was better when a person was liable to fall ass over teakettle onto the cold ground at any given strong gust of wind. Sam was hyper-aware that Castiel was on his six so close they still shared a fair amount of body heat. Normally, he'd find the lack of personal boundaries disturbing. For some reason, he didn't tonight.

Sam knew they were drawing closer by the increasing smell of smoke and the haze of orange brightening their progress. It was a risk he should have realized before he was well into it. He frowned. Benton might expect him to do this. Apparently, the guy knew a lot about him and Dean and Castiel, and probably Bobby. He paused at the edge of the clearing, tried to execute a squat and ended up on his knees again. An old truck was parked crookedly, not quite in the turnaround where the cabin used to stand.

"I'll go check it out first," he said softly to Castiel. "You wait here."

"You believe it's a trap," Castiel said.

"It could be. Probably is. If it is, you have to promise you'll keep out of it. One of us has to get away, and you're the better candidate right now."

Castiel didn't nod. He pursed his lips and looked ill or maybe constipated, but he didn't nod.

"You expect me to leave you here if things do not go optimally."

"Yeah, I guess I do." Sam pretended not to see that Castiel was not pleased at the idea. He shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter. Benton won't kill me fast. He already told us that. So if this goes south, you need to get Dean, get Bobby. Get a plan together. Then you can come back for me."

He didn't want to argue. He wasn't sacrificing himself, not really. And it might be a moot point anyway. Maybe for a change their luck would be good. He started moving, trusted Castiel would stay put. Instead of barging right out into the open, Sam left Castiel and skirted around the clearing. Benton might be watching, and he didn't want to give away Cas's location if he could help it.

By the time he'd crept to the opposite side of the clearing, Sam was sweating heavily and shivering harder than ever. He swiped at his brow with his left forearm, grimaced and looked down at his throbbing right arm. Somewhere along the way, the gigantic hole left by the gigantic needle had opened up and blood soaked fresh into the dirty bandage at the crook of his elbow. He wasn't going to think about what Benton would do to him, angered at losing his precious regenerating angel, if this was a trap. No sense mentioning that concern.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered.

Sam stepped out of the woods, toward the truck. He felt exposed, partially from the expectation of an ambush and partially from knowing Castiel was out there and staring at him. He made it to the driver's side door without incident, and felt a surge of hope. It was kind of dizzying, except, no, that was still the blood loss. He leaned on the truck to keep himself steady, studied the cab for any obvious signs of a trap. Not sure what he expected. There was no reason to think Benton would suddenly stop outplaying him at every possible turn.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He'd come this far. The only way to know for sure if he and Cas were on the fast track out of there was to open the door and see if he could hotwire this old truck. The second he lifted the handle and pulled, he knew he was in trouble. He heard a faint _pfft_, felt a sting in the back of his neck. All of two seconds later, warmth flooded his veins and the world did a full-blown, non blood-loss related loop. He heard the thud of his body hitting the ground, but he didn't feel a thing.

oOo

Something round and very hard pressed against his left shoulder blade. He didn't think it was a spring from a bad motel mattress. He figured they had chosen the squatting option instead this time. It seemed safer, more anonymous when Lucifer was after Sam and Michael was after Dean, to avoid their old conventional hunt practices. Seedy motel stays had become a luxury. He didn't remember crashing, so it was possible he'd lain on something. When Sam tried to roll off the offending object, he found he couldn't and that didn't seem to fit sleeping on a hard floor. Also, the sensation of being pinned in place gave him an alarming sense of déjà vu. Then his memory clicked, and he bit back a moan. He had to admit he was getting sick of waking up after a trauma had rendered him unconscious.

In a way, though, he was also relieved. Him strapped to another of Benton's tables meant Castiel had done the smart thing and gotten the hell out while the getting was good. Sam didn't love the after effects of whatever tranquilizing agent Benton had souped up and he sure hated the idea of what was to come, but the hangover and future torture was worth it if it meant the end of all this was only a matter of time. He just had to hang on, remind himself that nothing Benton could throw at him would be worse than anything he'd endured.

But he wished he could get that damned boulder-sized bump out from under him. Slicing and dicing under Benton's sloppy hand was going to suck enough without that added discomfort. It was insult to injury. Sam heard movement to his left and wrinkled his eyebrows. It sounded like footsteps on fallen leaves. Outside noises. Maybe he wasn't where he thought he was, and crap his head pounded. He peeled open his eyes and saw stars. At first that was what he saw, and then a face, up close and way too personal, obstructed his view of Ursa Major.

"I was becoming concerned at how long it was taking you to arouse again," Castiel said quietly, with a blink and a tilt of the head.

Oh, hell.

"You were supposed to leave," Sam croaked. "You promised."

"I didn't make such a promise." Castiel stayed about five inches above.

As near as he was, Castiel's eyes were intense and focused. It was the first time since they'd escaped that Cas looked remotely like himself. Well, except for the bloodstains and the outline of a faded bruise on his jaw. Sam wasn't happy that they were both still stuck in the woods, but that was something. And he remembered that, no, Castiel had conveniently not promised to leave.

"No, I guess you didn't. But you still should have gone for Dean when you had the chance. Why didn't you?"

"For one simple reason," Castiel said, finally pulled back. "Had I left you here and Benton had found you lying out in the open, neither Dean nor I would have any idea where to begin looking again."

"Oh."

Sam hadn't thought of that. It was true. Benton would have had a prolonged time with him, somewhere else. He wondered how many cabins Benton had rigged up. Hunters always had multiple locations at the ready, worst-case scenario contingencies. It stood to reason someone like Benton, motivated by revenge and everlasting life, might have a similar system. Wherever he would have ended up, Sam knew he could have taken the pain and medical procedures, but he shivered anyway.

"Also, it would seem my driving skills are somewhat lacking," Castiel said.

Sam snorted, in spite of himself.

"That … is not funny."

"Of course it isn't. If I better understood the mechanics of how to maneuver a vehicle, then we would not be here now."

Sam had a feeling the longer this conversation went on, the more confused he would become and only partly because of the drugs and blood loss. He tried again to move, succeeded in raising his left forearm and hand off the ground. It felt like it was weighted with wet sand, but it lifted. He'd take the victory where he could, considering they were still in the middle of nowhere with a mad scientist doctor after them and therefore still fucked. He put his palm toward Castiel, universal signal to stop. Then he raised his hand to the bridge of his nose and tried to pinch back the headache. It didn't work. What he wouldn't give for a handful of aspirin.

"Benton?" Sam said softly, and suddenly it seemed like his voice carried for miles.

"I haven't seen or heard him for some time," Castiel said.

Sam supposed he should be glad for that, but it made him more uneasy than anything. He didn't like it. No way would Benton sit on his hands when two of his prized possessions were in the vicinity. If anything, he would bet the doc had a whole bunch of traps laid out in the woods surrounding the cabin. Knowing who he was aiming to catch had to mean he planned for escape attempts and successes. Something clicked in his brain. Back in the basement. He closed his eyes and saw the ring of fire, how close Benton would have had to get to Castiel to do all those … things to him. Castiel could have pulled him over the flames, gotten him to put it out, gotten out of there before the first blade had sliced into skin.

He felt ill. Castiel could have saved himself and didn't. For him. More than once. This was all his fault, and he didn't deserve that kind of loyalty. But, no. Now was not the time to wallow in those thoughts, flog himself for his many past mistakes. Why was he always doing that? It wasn't productive. It was Castiel who had said before that they had to move forward. That meant figuring out what to do now that he and Castiel were still stuck hiding from good ol' Doc Benton.

"How long was I out?"

"Several hours."

Shit, that meant the sun had to be almost ready to rise. He squinted at Castiel, tried to determine if he could see more because it was lighter or because of the gradual decrease of drugs in his system. Lighter, definitely. Benton probably _had_ been waiting. Hunting would be easier in the broad light of day. The only other possibility was one he didn't want to think about – Benton had gone to collect the third piece of his trophy. If Benton got Dean, he and Cas would give up. No question.

"It'll be light soon," was all he said.

Castiel nodded.

Sam noted Castiel was not sitting so much as he was on his side nudged real close, propped on one elbow. Awkward. If Dean saw them, he'd make some smartass remark.

Sam watched Dean pace a tight line at the foot of the beds. It was a cliché, but it really did seem like anger radiated off his brother. Every line of his face was deeper, every muscle tense as if he were ready to launch a full attack. For a second, Sam pitied the intended target and then realized it was him. He knew what a no-holds-barred punch to the face from Dean was like. He thought about prompting it, just to get it over with already. There was more to Dean's anger with him than this screw-up. In the list of things Sam had screwed-up, accidentally letting a monster like Benton out of his cage was inconsequential. He almost laughed. Letting a monster like Lucifer out of his cage topped it all. This was just a trial run for the main event.

_He opened his mouth to say something. What, he wasn't sure. Dean didn't give him the chance. Sam sat mutely, with his mouth hanging open, while Dean snatched up his jacket and headed for the door._

"_I'll be back," Dean said. "Try not to do anything stupid."_

_Then Dean was gone, leaving Sam to stare at Castiel and Castiel to look at him like he expected Sam to go chase after his brother. Chasing wouldn't work. Sam knew that. Better to let Dean get it out of his system a little bit and come back on his own time. He waved a hand at Castiel when he moved for the door himself._

"_Let him go. He'll be back," Sam said, weary. "How long have we got you for?"_

_It was rare Castiel popped in to help them on an ordinary case. He didn't know if there was a deeper reason for Cas to show up. Maybe he'd made the Sam-let-out-a-monster connection also. _

"_As long as it takes," Castiel said, as if Sam's question was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard._

_Castiel might have misinterpreted his question to be bigger than it really was. Sam couldn't tell, but that was no different than status quo with Castiel as far as he was concerned. All he really needed to know, he did: the guy had given up his whole existence to fight with Dean. Sam and Castiel might be worlds apart in most ways, but in that they were the same. _

"_I've got a couple spots to check out. I think Benton could be south of the city," Sam said with a nod. "Most of the victims live in those suburbs."_

"_Should we not wait for Dean?"_

_Yeah, they probably should. Sam's guilt was pushing him to move faster, get this done and behind him. He was running out of ideas on how to do that and wait for Dean at the same time. _

"_I don't know how long it's going to take him to cool off. For all we know, Benton's got someone right now, someone we could save," Sam said. _

_Castiel was Dean's sidekick, not Sam's. The guy looked like the last place on earth he wanted to be was stuck with the boy with demon blood. Sam didn't know if it was worth debating. He might be better off heading out on his own. He stood, too fast. He got a little dizzy. Castiel was by the door and Sam thought he looked confused. Maybe sick. _

"_Cas, you okay?" He made it to Castiel's side in two steps, took him by the shoulders. _

"_No," Castiel said. "I don't understand how this is poss…"_

_Castiel's eyes rolled up in his head, he went limp and Sam struggled to hold onto him. His attempts didn't last long. The dizziness was back. He smelled something strong, heard a faint hiss. Oh, shit. He tumbled to the floor, Castiel wrapped awkwardly in his arms. His last conscious thought was that if Dean were to walk in on them like this, he'd never let Sam live it down._

Sam shuffled away from Castiel an inch. Whatever used to be under his shoulder blade ended up in the middle of his back, pressed against his spine. He sat up, eyeing his surroundings. Castiel had found a small dip. They were tucked into it, covered by thick brush on every side. Great to hide in, wouldn't want to get stuck in a hole in the ground.

"How far are we from the truck?" Sam said.

"Far enough, but not too far."

"Okay, so we go back and hope he only had one trap set."

Since Castiel seemed reluctant to leave him, Sam was going to volunteer him to test that theory. It wasn't the world's greatest plan, but at this point even if they followed the service road they wouldn't get far before daybreak. Not that they couldn't take that route if they had to. He knew better than to pin all his hopes on the truck.

"Are you able to walk unassisted?"

Asked the man who had barely been able to do the same a few hours ago.

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Sure."

He was, mostly. The dosage in the dart must have been smaller than the knockout gas Benton had used the first time. Once he was up, Sam started to feel better. Castiel took point, and they moved carefully but not as slowly as they would have in order to be noiseless. There wasn't time. Sam tripping occasionally would have killed the quiet, anyway. He'd feel bad about being a bumbling fool later. Benton's continued silence unnerved him. He expected to see that ugly, patchwork face any second. And he'd be holding that eyeball scoopy thing Sam had never quite gotten over.

Not only did Benton not appear, but when they got to the clearing, they found the truck gone.

"Shit," Sam said. There went that plan.

"You realize if Benton is still here somewhere, then we'll never make it on foot," Castiel said.

Sam did realize that.

"How much of your angel mojo did you burn dragging me to safety and how much have you got back?" Sam asked. "Because I think now's the time for you to fly."

"I am feeling much stronger," Castiel said, "but I'm not yet well enough to handle both of us. I would prefer not to leave you."

"Yeah, well, sometimes we all gotta do things that deep down we don't want to do." Sam smiled, grim. He felt woozy, adrenaline draining from him. He'd be damned if he was going to get Castiel caught again, and that would happen if the guy didn't take his angel fast track. "Go. Figure out where the hell we … I am. Get Dean. I'll be fine."

"You had better be."

With a gust of wind and a flutter that sounded like the beat of wings, Castiel was gone and Sam stood in the clearing, burned rubble behind him, alone.

oOo

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been skulking through the woods, slowly but surely employing Plan B (run like hell) by himself. Given the choice between making a break for it or cowering in a corner and waiting for help to arrive, it was a no brainer. Sitting in one spot was more dangerous than staying on the move, alert. He was exhausted, though, and even with motivation it was hard to combat the need to rest. At least when Castiel had been around that meant he had someone to prod him along, someone else's well-being to focus on as well. Instead, he was alone to think about the heat coming off his arm and the sluggishness of his brain and the slight tenderness of his left hand.

He wasn't sure how long it had been. It couldn't have been more than half an hour since Cas had left. From what Sam could tell, Benton had found a place so remote it was hours from civilization by car. That left him pretty screwed trying to walk out on foot. He was getting nowhere fast. If Cas found Dean, there was no telling how long it would take them to get back here. Sam paused, rested against a tree for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to slide down, sit and nap. It was a mistake to even stop to regain his equilibrium, too tempting to stay there forever. And he had to keep moving.

Despite being cautious of every step, Sam's foot landed on a root or rock or whothehellcaredwhat. His ankle gave way, twisting just enough to make him sprawl. Sam landed on his infected arm, barely kept a scream down. He lay there a moment, breathed through the pain. He practically inhaled the dirt and grass and moss. The ground was cool on the surface, had to be colder a few feet down. He wondered if locking Benton under the cold earth had made the crazy man even crazier. Had to have. Sam rolled over, careful not to jostle his arm. The sky was lightening into pre-dawn blue, the stars fading.

And, lying there flat on his back, was when he felt it. Sam had been unsteady and worried about Benton's whereabouts for hours. Suddenly, he sensed the man was near. He didn't know why. There was no change in the air, the wildlife didn't go quiet. He sat, on alert, listened for tangible proof he had gone from imagining the enemy around every tree to being stalked like quarry again.

"That's bullshit," he whispered. "I won't be the goddamned prey."

Tangible proof might not exist at the moment, but he knew he was right. Benton was close. Sam was tired of running. He was tired of feeling like he was being hunted. His entire life consisted of that feeling. Maybe it was outside his scope to keep the threat of Lucifer at bay, out of his head, for now, but Benton was just a man. A sick, twisted, immortal man that Sam had to put back in the ground. He couldn't do that if he were running, on the defensive.

Sam was an excellent hunter himself, but he wasn't sure how to set up an offensive attack on an enemy that was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Not when he felt like crap and had no tools at his disposal. But all of Benton's supplies and weapons were no more than piles of ash, too. The guy might have traps set all over the goddamn place, but Sam was closer to equal footing than he had been for days. He knew what and how and why and even enough about where. A little blood loss was not going to be his undoing. The way he figured it, he had nothing to lose by hunting Benton instead of letting Benton hunt him. Wander around trying to elude the guy, or wander around trying to find him. It was all the same. In reality, trying to find Benton was the more rational option.

Sam got to his feet slowly, held his arm close to his chest and peered into the woods behind him, all around him. He wasn't going to see anything and he knew it. Maybe in order to hunt Benton, he was going to have to let Benton hunt him and that … was not really any different than running away. Or he could stand around all night, waiting for the inevitable to happen. What an idiot. He supposed his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders.

Of course, rational did not actually equal realistic. Realistic was staying out of Benton's hands. The hair on the back of Sam's neck prickled, the sensation of being watched grew stronger. In his mind, he heard the doc breathing harsh rasps of sound in the quiet surrounding him and it came from every direction. He realized soon enough that the only harsh breathing he heard was his own. What little energy he could muster came from adrenaline, that old fight or flight he was still undecided on. It had him on edge, the rapid breathing, the cold sweat making his skin prickle. If he wasn't careful, he was going to fuck this up the same way he fucked everything up. He took a few steps. The service road had to lead somewhere. He'd follow it until he could get a line on precisely where Benton was, hunt the doc without him even knowing it.

What he needed was a weapon. Whether he was running or hunting, Sam needed something he could use against Benton. He'd prefer a gun, but a sturdy branch would have to do. It wasn't like he had a ton of choices. He wasn't up to MacGyvering anything, didn't have the strength or the time. It didn't take him long to find a suitable branch. As he leaned to pick it up, losing his balance only a little, Sam heard a twig snap.

"Peek-a-boo, I see you," Benton's voice called, ghost-like, through the trees.

Instinctively, Sam jerked to his feet, wavered there a moment until the gray starbursts cleared from his field of vision. Hours of silence and paranoia had made him jumpy as hell.

"Now that your angel friend is gone, you're starting to bore me, Winchester."

Sam's head spun as his heart pounded faster and faster. He heard a faint swish, close to his left ear, and then a tiny thwap. Oh, nono. He was not going to get drugged out, he would not wake up with one of his eyeballs missing. Flight won. He wasn't proud of it, once he realized his unsteady legs were doing a fair job of carrying him at a decent pace, but his body apparently wanted the hell out of this nightmare more than it wanted to fight.

"You can run, but where you gonna hide?"

For as unsettling as dead silence had been, Sam changed his tune. Ominous stillness was way better than the ridiculous mocking, the total certainty that someone was on his heels that came with it. If he could only pinpoint where it was coming from he would feel much better, but it was like Benton's voice had a life of its own, bounced around the trees so as to sound like it was right behind him and impossibly to the side and even in front as well. It made him dizzier, something else he didn't think should be possible. He ducked behind a tree, bent to rest his hands on his knees. At that action, a grim chuckle filled the air.

Angry, Sam straightened and stepped into the open. He gripped the branch tight in his left hand, ready to swing.

"Enough with the goddamn games, Benton," he shouted. "Stop hiding in the shadows."

"You think I'm a fool, boy?" Benton laughed again. "I'm almost three hundred years old, and even weakened you're still twice my size."

Good. Little did Benton seem to know that Sam didn't think he could put down a four-month-old kitten if he had to go one-on-one with one right now. Somewhere along the way, recently but he didn't know for sure when, his muscles had started to twitch, overexertion and dehydration taking their toll. Tiny electrical impulses hit each muscle, caused them to seize. It was uncomfortable as hell, and more importantly he knew it wouldn't take much to fell him in his condition. He was so fucking fucked, but he could not let Benton see that.

This time the dart came so close it skimmed his right bicep. That meant Benton was still far enough away for his aim to be off, but closer than he had been. And, shit, the site of the graze felt kind of numb. It hadn't entered his bloodstream. Didn't matter, he had to get going before the next one came at him and landed a more direct hit. Benton must have had a stash in the truck; he had to run out sometime. Sam just had to last that long. And now he knew Benton was directly behind him. The scratch started closer to the back of his arm, stopped at the curve where it lost contact.

Sam tried to stay under cover and make his path uneven as he got underway again. The first part of that plan was a challenge, the last part would have happened unintentionally anyway. What gnawed at the back of his mind was whether or not he believed he could keep this up until Benton ran out of magic tricks or Castiel or Dean showed. Any belief he'd be able to single-handedly put Benton back in the ground had been erased. Barring a miracle, it just wasn't going to happen. Not today, anyway. He knew that, and yet somewhere deep inside he was pulling for that miracle.

Somewhere deep inside, even knowing now what he did about God and angels and everything, Sam still _always_ prayed for miracles.

And rarely got them.

One second Sam was being pursued by a threat and the next, Benton was there. He didn't have time to try to figure out how or why (and so much for Benton fearing his size). In his surprise he lost his footing, ended up sprawled on his back. Benton's low chuckle had him scrambling, adrenaline gave him a burst of strength. He got to his knees before Benton could get to him, still had the branch and he swung it. The arc was awkward in a left-handed hold, but it connected with a solid crack against Benton's right knee and sent the guy to the ground with an angry howl. He had to have busted something.

Sam knew it would take the doctor a few seconds to pull himself together. He stood, glanced at Benton and saw him fishing around with his hands. Looking for something. He rushed a few steps to Benton and stomped on his left hand just as it closed over a crude weapon. Dart gun? Whatever. Sam was having none of that. He needed to incapacitate the guy so he could lose him, venture off the path. He kicked Benton in the torso, jostled him an inch or two to the side. Then he aimed for the face, heard the snap of teeth clattering together, maybe the jawbone breaking. Benton's eyes rolled back.

As quickly as it had aided him, adrenaline abandoned Sam. He tripped a few steps and stood, gasping for breath, with every single muscle in his body enduring small convulsions. He needed rest and couldn't allow for it, he needed fuel and had none. Still clutching onto the branch, he staggered backward away from Benton's body. He had to go, but he didn't know where to go that would keep him from Benton but not make it impossible for Dean to find him.

He decided he could figure that out once he was out of Benton's sight. The doctor was already starting to stir. Sam heard the sounds of bones setting, joints popping. He spun on his heels and tried to jog. What he managed was anything but a jog, but it was forward movement and that was all he cared about. He didn't concern himself with stealth, only pace. That was all that mattered. He had maybe ten minutes, or he hoped anyway. He didn't think he'd damaged Benton more than ten minutes' worth.

If he hadn't been so intent on putting distance between him and Benton, he might have avoided it. If his vision hadn't tunneled, he would have seen it. If he hadn't lost a couple pints of blood and been pushed beyond his limits, he probably could have avoided the fall.

But all of those ifs were facts of life, and Sam had plummeted into a deep hole in the ground, hit the bottom and nearly swallowed a mouthful of loose dirt before he even knew that he'd sprung a rudimentary trap. He saw red sparks, visual manifestation of the pain shooting through his arm. For the first time since this whole thing started, Sam wanted to pass out and didn't. He groaned, and flipped onto his back. Squinting, he estimated he was at least eight feet down. More, maybe. He might have been impressed with the feat of digging a large hole this deep if he weren't stuck in it. He shivered. Benton was right. It was damned cold.

Above, songbirds warbled and chirped their welcome to the dawn, completely unaware how miserable and screwed (again) Sam Winchester was below the surface.

oOo

There was no way out. The walls of Sam's prison were too high for him to jump and reach the edge to pull himself free. Attempts at climbing only resulted in earth crumbling loosely, prevented any footholds. Maybe eventually he could come up with something. He didn't have eventually. He had minutes. He'd like to see how Benton planned to haul his ass out of there, but he had a strong feeling he would be unconscious. It looked like he was going to end up strapped to a table, anyway. He was not looking forward to another heavy dose of sedative, wondered if he could even survive one. It would probably leave him sick as a dog, which would be the least of his concerns, really.

Though Sam knew it was pointless, the idea of being drugged had him trying to scale the walls again. All he got for his trouble was a face full of dirt and tears in his eyes. He stilled when he heard approaching footsteps, took up a fight stance without thought. He figured out a second later how stupid that was, he wasn't going to be able to beat the shit out of Benton from down there, but didn't relax. He might have lost this battle. He didn't have to show it.

"My, my. Look what we have here."

The doctor's words were slurred slightly. From his awkward angle, Sam saw Benton's jaw was swollen and seemed off-kilter. He felt a flash of pride, and then a stab of dread. He clenched his own strong jaw, tried to picture it cobbled onto the ugly face peering down at him. Oh hell no.

"Someone wasn't paying attention to his surroundings," Benton continued with an approximation of a smile. "I half expected better from you."

Sam had a horrible suspicion Benton had planned all of this, driven him right for the hole. He felt like an idiot, but at the same time he hadn't had a better option. Sometimes no matter how hard a person ran, he was still going to get caught. In that way, Sam did believe in destiny. He didn't want to. He didn't want to dismiss everything Benton was going to do to him as irrelevant, didn't want to think that Benton could kill him before Dean and Cas found him and it wouldn't matter.

"Fuck you, Benton," Sam said, too exhausted to come up with anything wittier. "You got me, but you lost the big prize."

"I know, and that's a shame. For you." Benton cocked his head to the side. "I've had a change of heart, Winchester. Without your angel friend to sweeten the pot, I'd just as soon see you dead. First you, then your brother. Who knows, I might even manage to get my hands on the angel again."

Ah, shit. Buying time was not something he had ever been very good at. It was Dean's thing to bullshit, though even he might have a hard time talking himself out of this. Sam stared at Benton, had no other recourse. They both knew it.

"If you hadn't destroyed my … clinic and the last of the sedative just now, I might have taken pity. Put you out before. But now," Benton said with mock sadness, "now you get the full effect. Count yourself lucky the torment won't last."

Full effect? For a second, Sam wasn't sure what that meant. Then his brain kicked in. He was standing in a goddamn open grave. Involuntarily, Sam's breath rate increased. What he'd thought about being drugged again, he took back. He wanted to be out, way out, while he slowly asphyxiated.

"You going to stand there all morning," Sam said, throat dry as he challenged Benton the best he could, "or are you going to do it?"

"Oh, so brave." Benton gave a raspy laugh. "It'll take some time. None of my parts are young anymore, you know. But I know I, for one, am going to truly enjoy the backache."

Sam swallowed. There wasn't much he could say to that, to any of this. He didn't remember seeing a pile of displaced dirt anywhere, but then he didn't remember seeing the hole until he was in it. It was academic anyway. Mentally, he calculated how long it might take a 300-year-old man to fill a deep hole. It wasn't nearly as long as it would be to dig.

"I'll be right back," Benton said. "Don't go anywhere."

The moment he couldn't hear Benton's retreating footsteps anymore, Sam let the panic free. He knew in the back of his mind he was like a lab rat constantly going for the food and getting zapped as he clambered at the walls, jumped and ignored the pain in his arm, all for the tiniest possibility of freedom. He had to keep trying.

He was surprised as hell when one of his frantic leaps actually got him a tenuous hold on the lip of the hole. He concentrated his efforts on staying up, even as dirt disintegrated under his feet, the edge eroded into his face. At first it was hands only, then Sam managed to get one elbow on level ground. He was so close to being free he could taste it. He scrabbled his left hand out, searched for anything more stable than grass to clutch onto, all the while slipping backward.

He almost made it.

Out of nowhere, something crashed against his hand. Reflexively, Sam let go and a fraction of a second later was in a free fall to the bottom of his grave. His breath came out of him with a woof. He lay stunned, blinking away dirt and tears and trying to reclaim his ability to breathe, when Benton appeared above, a long-handled shovel in his hands.

"Anh-anh," Benton said. He sounded far away. "None of that."

The first scoop of dirt hit him full in the chest, then the second. Sam finally sucked in oxygen, coughed and choked as he rolled to the side. The dirt fell like rain. He got shakily to his hands and knees, let it pelt his back instead of his front. He stayed in that position until he was sure his legs would hold him. It didn't matter anymore. Standing, sitting or lying, he was going to be buried out here. At least standing would take longer, something Benton had preferred to avoid by knocking him out. Sam wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse to have this take longer.

"Benton," Sam said, and stopped. He wasn't going to beg. He wasn't going to explain to an evil man that by killing Sam he was probably gonna put an end to the entire human race.

The dirt was already up to his shins. He dug his feet out, paced the bottom of the grave as if that would prevent the dirt from piling up. It might, he thought. He might be able to pack it down, keep himself from being covered. Sam wagered he could stay on top of it faster than Benton could shovel it in. A glimmer of hope that he might survive this after all, or had a shot at it, began to form. He studied the ground.

His peripheral vision caught rapid movement to his left. Sam turned toward it, saw the blunt side of the shovel blade rapidly approaching his head and ducked. The blow didn't land full-on, but it clipped him to the point he lost his footing. He slumped, but didn't collapse flat, pressed against the dirt wall in an awkward slouch. He grunted, his vision grayed and he tried like hell to stay conscious. Warm blood trickled down his face. He shivered, heard Benton mutter something, didn't know or care what. Too busy trying to hold onto reality. His fingers clawed at the dirt. It was too much. He couldn't, had to. Did. Sam didn't go all the way out.

"I hope that knocked the thought right out of your head," Benton said.

It didn't, but Sam was powerless. He couldn't move. His limbs felt leaden. The dirt rose around him. He felt it, saw it, smelled it. But he was done. He was going to bite it, and it wasn't just his end that would come as a result. It was a stupid-ass way to go.

"It's cold down there, isn't it?" Benton called. "So co-"

Benton's voice cut off. Sam pulled himself out of the haze he'd lapsed into to see why. He couldn't actually see much of anything, though, his eyes too irritated and watery. His ears were in better shape, still ringing but he'd gotten kind of used to that. He heard scuffling and then a loud gun blast rocked the air, followed by a dull thud.

And a distant cry of "Sam?" from a voice he would recognize anywhere, anytime.

Sam smiled and passed out, but only for a second, more of a long blink. He lifted his head, thought better of it. Opened his eyes, thought better of it. His hands started moving on their own, pushed at the dirt encasing his legs and torso. He was uncoordinated and failing miserably at unburying himself. He heard another soft rustle and small thud, knew he wasn't alone in his grave anymore. He fumbled faster, some part of his brain thinking maybe it was Benton.

"Sam," a different voice said. Not Dean. Déjà vu.

"Cas?" Sam asked. He opened his eyes a crack, saw nothing but a blur of tan. Closed them again. "Hey, you came back."

"Of course I did." Even with tunnel-voice, Castiel sounded perplexed. "Did you believe I wouldn't?"

"No."Sam sighed. He'd really rather sleep now. "I mean, I…"

"I regret that I wasn't able to return in time to prevent further injury."

A cool hand on his forehead, a finger tilting his chin up. Sam didn't know what Castiel expected to see in the dark. He opened his eyes, a bit wider this time, realized it was pretty light out. And he could see better. He wasn't injured badly, not really, he was just so damned tired. He'd given up. Benton had chased the fight right out of him. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought that now Dean would know for sure Sam wasn't strong enough to defeat Lucifer.

"You said you would be fine," Castiel said, unhappy.

"I am. I'm fine, I'm okay. Or I will be." Sam wasn't entirely convinced of that himself, judging from how his voice sounded and the horrible thoughts spinning in his head. He was a pretender. "Why didn't you? Come back sooner, I mean?"

Castiel glanced away, narrowed his eyes in the closest estimate of frustration as Sam had ever seen from him.

"You passed out," Sam said, going with a gut feeling. It wouldn't be a stretch, considering the last time he'd seen Castiel the guy had looked about like he himself felt at the moment. Castiel looked much, much better. "After you flew off, it tapped you out. Didn't it?"

"I expended a great amount of energy," Castiel said, dropped the hands from Sam's face. "I was not well."

"'S'okay. Sometimes you can't help it. Hell, I've been passing out all night." Sam smiled, then frowned. "Is Benton dead? I heard Dean. Where is he?"

"Benton will be handled soon, and Dean will be here momentarily. The length of the story is too great to discuss right now."

"Okay. Sure."

Whatever that actually meant, Sam didn't have the energy to translate. Eventually he'd get more details, and this time he had an eventually to look forward to. He lifted his head and pulled his shoulders away from the wall. That was as far as he could get, the dirt suddenly heavy on his legs and belly. He waved his good arm at Castiel, who reached out and helped pull him free of the dirt and to his feet with steady strength. Sam, on the other hand, was anything but steady. He'd be embarrassed about it later, but for now he leaned on Castiel heavily.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"You're my friend, Sam. I don't believe vocal acknowledgement of your appreciation is required under these circumstances."

But Castiel was Dean's friend. Sam didn't quite know how to respond to those strangely-articulated words. He coughed, looked aside. He was distracted and stunned at how much dirt was actually in the grave. He thought maybe he'd been in some kind of time warp or something, because he didn't think how near he'd come to being buried alive was possible.

"Jeez," he said. "You guys cut it close."

"There's gratitude for ya," Dean said, appearing above. Possibly he'd been standing there awhile. "Sam, you okay?"

A mix of emotions ran through Sam. Relief and confusion and that same sadness he could never shake completely when he was around Dean anymore. He wasn't sure he heard concern in Dean's voice. Actually, he did and always would, but it wasn't the same, wasn't there the way it always used to be. Shit, he wasn't in a good headspace for this stuff right now. He shoved those thoughts aside. That was a future and ongoing project, not for here. Here, he just wanted out of the damn hole and Benton in it with no chance of parole.

"I'm good."

"Okay, then maybe you two lovebirds can stop groping each down there so we can finish this once and for all."

If Sam had had any strength at all, he would have flicked Dean off. As it was, he clutched onto Castiel even tighter and enjoyed watching Dean roll his eyes at them. It was probably as close to an _"I was worried about you/I know, and I'm really okay"_ conversation as they were going to get. And Sam was no longer one who could afford to cast aside small favors whenever and however he could get them.

"Humans are strange beings," Sam thought he heard Castiel mutter.

Sam laughed and reached for Dean's outstretched hand.


End file.
